


L'Orfeo

by Magical_Destiny



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannigram at the opera, M/M, Operas, POV Hannibal, POV Will Graham, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will Graham Has a Nice Day, Will Loves Hannibal, emotional connections and relationship epiphanies abound, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6495196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magical_Destiny/pseuds/Magical_Destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Orpheus is a tale of tragic weddings and love beyond death. </p>
<p>Months after their escape from both death and their old lives, Hannibal and Will are finally healing from wounds physical and mental — but they may have escaped one cliff's edge only to face another. With decisions about the future looming, Hannibal and Will attend a performance of Monteverdi's <em>L'Orfeo</em> and ponder marriage, the Underworld, what it means to look back…and, just maybe, what it might mean to look forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologo

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing _Salome_ , my first Hannigram + opera fic, that I was tempted to write another one. But I might not have gone through with my vague plan if not for the lovely people who commented on that fic and expressed interest. I'm so happy that we're all having these Hannigram-at-the-opera feels together. This fic is dedicated to all of you. <3
> 
> It's not necessary to have read _Salome_ to read this one! But if you want to check it out, I certainly won't complain. ;) 
> 
> This fic was originally intended as a oneshot, but as you can see from the chapter count, it didn't end up that way. I'll be posting the last two chapters over the weekend, so there won't be a long wait! 
> 
> Finally, I can't believe I wrote a post-WotL fic. I used to think I never could, because I couldn't figure out how to extract these boys from the Chesapeake and make them deal with their issues. But then I realized: maybe this fic isn't about those early days when they're focused on surviving. Maybe it's about the emotional healing that comes after the physical. Enter _L'Orfeo_ , an opera based on a myth of death and love. (Enter my pathological quest for Happy!Hannigram...)
> 
> I hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

The sky is slate. Rendered moonless and starless by thick clouds, it offers no light aside from the golden corona clinging to the cliff’s edge — the light from the house impossibly far above.

Hannibal can just make out the shadowy outline of his hand when he summons the strength to lift it. He’s lying on his back, his throat raw from coughing out the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, his muscles spasmed against the line of heat stabbing straight through his torso. Brackish water and bullet wounds don’t mix. 

He’s lost significant blood in the last few minutes and it’s left him breathless, unfocused, and sapped of all strength. His mind drifts with the clouds overhead as they thin just enough to reveal a glimpse of the moon before veiling it again.

It takes too long for his blood-starved brain to remember why he is lying on a bed of rocks and sand.

“Will,” he rasps, and ignores the agony that flares white-hot in his gut when he forces himself upright. His vision flickers; he should not have moved so quickly. He pulls in long, even breaths and waits for the black spots to clear from his vision. It takes more torturous seconds for his eyes to fully adjust to the absence of light.

Will is facedown a few feet away. 

Hannibal moves with no grace when he half-drags himself to Will’s side, ignoring the pain waking in what feels like every nerve ending he possesses. Bruises, scrapes, lacerations, the bullet wound, the scrape of each breath in his lungs — it’s shocking that he’d managed to pull the two of them to shore in this condition, even more ludicrous that they’d survived the fall at all. 

Of course, surviving had not been Will’s design for either of them. 

He can’t define his own hesitation when his hand hovers over Will’s throat to check for a pulse. He’s glad he can only barely see the shape of his hand; he can feel it shaking. He reaches for Will, and his muscles scream in protest again, whether from residual aches or the fact that he is clenching them tightly against the possibility that Will might be —

Will splutters violently, a rush of water spilling from his mouth as his diaphragm heaves. He makes a sound as he turns himself over, a groan that Hannibal can’t decrypt into words. His chest bumps against Hannibal’s knees and Will’s eyes lock onto his even in the near total darkness. This time, Hannibal understands the groan clearly as Will repeats it. 

“No…”

His hands freeze in their trajectory toward the oozing knife wound beneath Will’s clavicle; he shrinks back and rests his fingers against the cold sand instead. 

Will is still drawing a death shroud around himself, determined to remove them both from the land of the living. He would die rather than embrace what they had just done together. What they could still do. 

Hannibal’s persistent pain ebbs, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion in its place. His lungs ache as he exhales; the breath catches in his chest, his throat, against his parched lips. He’s all but been bled dry of blood and strength, and he has very little of either left, but he could still save Will. He could save both of them. They’ve survived the worst, and a few stitches and bandages would set them to rights. Will is barely moving. He could drag him up the beach and keep him sedated while they healed. He would be much less prone to suicidal tendencies when faced with the prospect of recovered health, surely.

Will’s breath is coming shallow and fast, and he hasn’t moved. He’s shivering; they both are. 

Hannibal’s visions of forcing him to recover evaporate into the cold air, leaving him with uncertainty that stings like the salt still clinging to his skin. 

“Will,” he says, as steadily as he can manage when they’re halfway to death’s door and Will is determined they should make the remainder of the trip. “I believe I can save us.”

Will’s eyes are closed and he doesn’t answer, but Hannibal can see his fingers tighten into fists against the rough, rocky sand. He’s listening. 

“I need you to speak,” he continues, over the languid lap of the water. It pulses distantly, like a rush of blood in his ears. “I find…I find myself unwilling to take this choice away from you.”

And _there_ are Will’s eyes, snapping open again, gleaming in what little light they have.

Hannibal leans in, a graceless, jerking movement of his strained muscles. He isn’t quite sure whether he’s struggling to hold himself up or hold himself _back_. 

“Will you pick up your life, Will?”

Will’s silence is as absolute as stone. Hannibal wonders what he will do if Will decides to die. He could drag himself down the beach alone, patch up his wounds, and disappear. Or he could collapse against the rocks beside Will and stare up at the sky with him until both their hearts stutter to a halt. 

The former, he thinks, seems remarkably unappealing. 

Hannibal waits. 

Will’s silence shifts before his expression does. Hannibal can barely see his smile, but he can hear it plainly. In the darkness, it’s impossible to make out whether it’s joy or despair spreading over his face. 

“Alright,” Will whispers, his voice half-choked with water and blood. “Save me.”


	2. Sinfonia

Florence was named for its rivers. 

It’s one of many facts Will has become acquainted with over the last few weeks in Italy, along with an assortment of anecdotes about Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Botticelli, Peri, and Monteverdi. Hannibal can’t seem to contain himself when it comes to stories about his favorite city. 

Will enjoys the beauty in a distant sort of way. It’s a city with art in its very DNA, the past and the present seamlessly blending in sculptures of old gods rising from fountains in tourist-swarmed piazzas, ancient domes dominating the skyline beside modern apartments, thoroughfares running beside ancient Roman aqueducts — the lingering signs of the Empire that had founded the city over two millennia before. It’s a blur in reality, as though someone dragged their fingers across the face of a painting not quite dry and bled time itself together. The only thing missing is any indication of the future. It should bother him, he thinks. 

It doesn’t. Will is used to having no notion of what will happen next. 

He studies the contrast between the dark wood window frame and the clear, bright sky beyond, trying to relax against the window seat as Hannibal leans close to inspect his healing cheek. The wind teasing at the curtains is warm, and Will is almost certain the scent of flowers is in the air. Some of Florence’s seasonal gardens will be opening soon, just a short distance from the flat. He wonders if that’s why Hannibal chose this flat. If it was spur of the moment, or the result of previous careful planning. Hannibal’s fingertip probes gently at the ugly red ridge on his cheek and Will decides against asking. 

At least the flesh and skin of his cheek isn’t hurting any longer, even under Hannibal’s testing touch. 

“No need to bandage it anymore,” Hannibal says, so close that Will feels his breath against his cheek. “You should leave it uncovered from now on. Is it giving you any pain?”

“No.” Nothing seems to be causing him any pain these days. He worries about the numbness, internal and external, but he shakes his head. Hannibal’s hand slides away. 

Will settles his back uncomfortably against the wall. “One more scar for the collection,” he mutters, without being quite sure why. The wind still smells sweet; it rustles the handful of trees lining the sparsely-populated street below. 

An unnatural stillness passes through Hannibal’s torso even as his hands carefully pack away the medical supplies they’ve been carrying for weeks now. 

“You dwell on wounds instead of healing,” he says, at length. His placid tone doesn’t fool Will, not anymore. “It’s a practice that is counterproductive at best.”

“Dangerous at worst?” Will adds, trying not to sound sullen. It comes out tired instead. He wonders if exhaustion is his new emotional baseline.

“The only danger you need fear is from yourself.”

And that, Will thinks, is precisely the problem. He’s never been able to escape himself. Not even by throwing himself off a cliff’s edge in both the literal and metaphorical sense. He snorts faintly at that, and Hannibal looks at him questioningly, waiting for an explanation. 

Will doesn’t offer one. 

His eyes drift to the cobbled street below, where a tourist couple is walking under the shade of the trees. The woman has a bouquet of tulips cradled to her chest. She looks weightless, her breezy clothes teased by the wind, her shoulders relaxed, one arm tucked into the arm of the man beside her. He watches the couple walk away into endless possibilities.

He feels the single possibility of his own life fall on his shoulders and chest like blocks of stone and stifle the very air from his lungs. There had been only one possibility left to him from the moment he stumbled into Hannibal’s grip and murmured _it’s beautiful_. He’d tried to finish things himself, but death evaded him even when he jumped headlong into its arms. 

So he waits. 

Hannibal will tire eventually of dragging deadweight with him. He hasn’t pressed Will about where they will go or what they will do or who and how they might hunt together again, but it’s only a matter of time. And when he realizes that Will has no intention of killing again, he will have only one recourse. 

At least, Will thinks, he’s ready to die. He’d been ready a long time ago. 

These past months with Hannibal have been surprisingly easy, healing enough to run and running enough to escape. They’ve fallen into a pattern born of necessity, and, for the first time, Will knows what it’s like to expect and receive support and healing from Hannibal instead of endless pain. He’d always found a certain amount of comfort in Hannibal’s presence, a certain steadying effect. Will has drifted like a ship in a storm for most of his life, but Hannibal…

Hannibal is an anchor. Certain, strong, committed, even in the fiercest squalls. Even in the storms he stirs into existence himself. Will had twisted violently away from the pull of that anchor from the moment he’d recognized him for who and what he was…

But the pull had never really stopped.

The past few weeks of fleeing have provided him with a building epiphany, blossoming bright as the flowers bobbing against the woman’s arm below. He has spent every day in Hannibal’s company, listened to his voice, felt the gentle probe of his surgeon’s hands against his own torn skin. 

And he has never felt more at peace. 

But now the bandages are coming off, Hannibal is walking without favoring his right side, and the ease between them is beginning to crackle with something like inevitability. This calm before the storm can only last so long. 

It’s a shame, Will thinks. The last few months have been effortless. But nothing lasts, he knows. He’s living proof of that, even if he can’t seem to finish off his own life.

He looks down at the city where every stage of time is visible except for the swiftly-approaching future and ignores Hannibal’s evaluating stare. He’ll know the truth soon enough. The truth that Will is almost happy here, and yet it must end because he can’t possibly be what Hannibal wants him to be. He still doesn’t have his appetite. 

Far below, the couple has paused to hunch over a map. They turn decisively to the right; one of the woman’s flowers slips from her grip and falls gently to the street as they disappear around the bend. The tulip rests for a few tranquil moments. But eventually, Will watches it blow away in the wind. 

===

Will has the hands of an artist. His long, thin fingers are graceful in construction and movement, almost delicate in build. It’s a tragedy, Hannibal reflects, that he has never received any significant artistic instruction. With his eye for detail, he could have been an exquisite artist. With his sensitivity, he could have been a peerless musician. As it is, Will almost always uses his hands as blunt instruments for rough work. 

A lifetime of repairing boat motors, extensive training with small arms, and mishaps with fish hooks and the care of his dogs has left him with callused hands and a smattering of faded scars the origins of which Hannibal fervently wishes to learn. Will has added to the collection during their time in Florence, nicking himself with needles and scissors while assisting with stitches, and battering his hands in his constant pursuit of things in need of fixing. He’d spent the first days in the flat tightening hinges and locks and inspecting the plumbing. He seems crestfallen when he can find nothing more to adjust.

And then he moves on to the piano. Hannibal has played the small upright piano against the wall of the den a few times since their arrival; it’s slightly out of tune, with more decay than care to show for its age. A few keys have a tendency to stick and the pedals are in need of maintenance. Still, it is nice to have access to a piano again. He’d gone three years without access to instruments of any kind. 

He begins to question the blessing when Will takes to playing at all hours, with no purpose, as far as Hannibal can determine, besides occupying his idle hands. He listens to Will’s rough improvisations with interest for many days. But there is no shape to the wandering melodies Will produces, and no harmonic structure. 

No purpose, only uncertainty.

Music without purpose is as alien to Hannibal as eating without appetite. Even the most aleatory music has purpose in intent if not in form. And yet, if there is purpose and direction in Will’s free-flowing melodies, Hannibal cannot detect it. 

He wonders if he is more bothered by the constant noise or by the sense that Will cannot seem to decide on a direction. Uncertainty is perilous in music; it is lethal in life. 

_Will you pick up your life, Will?_

Perhaps he is having second thoughts about his decision. 

He turns the thought over in his mind, clenching his jaw through directionless scales and dissonances that would have set Schoenberg's teeth on edge, all so that Will can release his tension and set the course of his thoughts. 

He considers offering to teach Will to play properly, but Will’s withering response is all too easy to imagine and he rejects the idea out of hand. He listens and tries to divine meaning from a distance instead. If their history has taught him anything, it’s that Will flourishes when he's given room to do so. Hannibal finds he's more than willing to grant him that control. 

Or maybe he's reached a point where he's relinquished any semblance of control over Will Graham whether he's willing or not.

Will’s withdrawal only increases as their time in Florence lengthens from days into weeks, and Hannibal mourns the loss of the ease between them. In the first few days after the Dragon and the Chesapeake, they’d been bound together by the necessity of watching each other’s wounds. Hannibal reveled then as he revels now in Will’s prolonged closeness. After years of his silent, empty cell, Will’s voice and scent and touch are like the purest oxygen. He’s found himself healing and thriving in this atmosphere. 

Now Will’s moody silence presses against him like the hiss of oxygen escaping from an insufficiently sealed space, his silence the sound of life draining away from them both. He fills Will’s silence with memories of his words. It’s not a universally pleasant experience.

_You delight, I tolerate._

Has Will merely been tolerating their recovery? Continuing on out of his ever-righteous desire to stop those around him from dying, even if that someone is Hannibal? Or perhaps he remains as a last attempt to keep Hannibal from hurting anyone else. 

The doubts are too frequent and persuasive for Hannibal’s liking. He reflects darkly that he ought to have killed Will years ago in his kitchen or in Sogliato’s dining room or in the house on the bluff. He ought to stand close behind Will now, even this moment, and gently cut his throat. He ought to end all this and disappear.

He doesn’t. 

He _can’t._

Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that he has apparently lost the ability to kill Will Graham after all they’ve been through together. Nevertheless, the realization crawls over his skin like the shivering vibrations of a distant, persistent gong, causing him an unfamiliar sense of unease. The fabric of his carefully woven universe has shifted. In this new world he can no more cut Will’s throat than he could look in a mirror and cut his own. 

So he leans against the doorway to the den and smooths away his reflexive wince at Will’s current atonal improvisation, wondering that his chosen form of solace is music. It’s not at all what he would have expected. 

But then, Will always surprises him. 

The trickle of an idea begins as Will plays, quickly swelling into a rushing current. Perhaps there is a way to inspire Will to relax, to encourage him to speak and grant Hannibal entrance to his closely-guarded thoughts. Hannibal slips out of the flat without announcing his intentions. 

Will is sitting in the window seat when he returns, staring blankly at the street below. The Florentine sun spills across the planes of Will’s face, warming one stubbled cheek and casting his newest scar into shadow. His eyes are rendered green-gold in the glow. 

He is a supremely beautiful picture, even with his palpable sadness. Perhaps even more so; tragedy carries an inherent beauty and fascination. 

He feels a powerful urge to wipe the sorrow away, beautiful or not. Fortunately his plans to stir Will out of his current withdrawal are already in motion. He closes the door behind him, drawing Will’s gaze at last.

“What’s that?” Will asks, nodding toward the bags balanced in Hannibal’s arms. 

“Patience,” Hannibal counsels him. He is half-relieved and half-disappointed when Will’s eyes drift back to the window and he doesn’t press. 

Hannibal slips into Will’s room and deposits the collection of bags and a slip of printed paper on his bed. He has only a moment to admire the tableau before the discordant sound of Will’s playing begins again.

===

Will recognizes the zippered cloth bag on his bed as a garment bag, despite never having owned one that wasn’t the plastic, dry cleaner-provided variety. The suit inside looks and feels more expensive than anything he’s ever owned. 

There was a time, he reflects, when he wouldn’t have accepted such an extravagant gift from anyone. Now he only sighs and wonders about the occasion. It’s Hannibal’s money that has supported them across the miles and oceans between continents, so he has no grounds for objection. He wonders additionally whether there’s any point in rejecting a gift from someone who has carried you from death into life more than once. Probably not. But he’s never been good with etiquette. 

He ignores the more distant thought about mitigating factors like murder attempts, guttings, and instigating the danger that later requires the rescuing. It’s all a blur in his mind; he can’t distinguish where the danger ends and the rescue begins. Not anymore. Maybe when it comes to Hannibal there isn’t really a difference in the first place.

There is a printed slip of paper beside the bag; he slides the fingertips of one hand across the smooth fabric of the suit and reaches for the paper with the other. It’s a ticket, he realizes. He’s exceptionally bad at reading Italian, but the heading _Opera di Firenze_ is easy enough to decipher. The date and time — tonight, eight o’clock — are obvious as well. Only the title leaves him wondering. 

_L’Orfeo_

He’s never heard of this opera. He has no idea what Hannibal’s motives for an impromptu night on the town might be, and he has absolutely no idea whether he’ll live to see tomorrow. He waits for his muscles to clench with tension, but they relax instead. The strange equilibrium between the two of them won’t last forever, he knows. But he can enjoy it while it does. Even men on Death Row merit last requests. He wonders whether a quiet night at the opera is his last request or Hannibal’s, and reaches for the suit. 

_===_

Time slows to a crawl the way it often does when Will is not present. Hannibal wills himself into stillness and ignores the way each passing second smashes against his mind like a shattering teacup. Will hasn’t emerged from his room in over an hour, hasn’t given any indication that he’s seen Hannibal’s gift, let alone has any interest in it. Hannibal pulls his eyes from Will’s stubbornly shut door, and faces the framed mirror hanging opposite the window seat to adjust his bow tie. They will need to leave very shortly if they are to go at all. Will doesn’t know the city as thoroughly as Hannibal, but he must be aware that the Opera di Firenze is on the other side of the city and it will take some little time to get there. 

Another minute scrapes past.

Surely he will not decline to go. Will has never shown any sign of disliking the opera, and Hannibal is certain he enjoyed the performance of _Salome_ they attended together, years ago now. He’d even thought Will displayed an affinity for vocal music. Hannibal half-suspects it is the natural empathy in Will that inclines him toward the human voice above strings or woodwinds or brass. The voice was the first instrument, and remains the most direct line of connection to the human soul. It is a connection Will reads without effort. 

Another minute is gone. He considers and rejects the idea of going without Will in the same instant. For the first time in his life, he’s not certain that attending the opera alone would prove enjoyable.

The squeak of the hinges is loud in the oppressive silence when the door opens at last. In the barest fraction of a moment, all the former uncertainty evaporates and leaves only anticipation in its wake. 

Will is dressed and ready, his ticket stuffed haphazardly behind his badly folded pocket square.

He is stunning. The suit is cut from midnight blue twill that falls like water over Will’s frame, despite Hannibal’s guesswork regarding the measurements and Will’s habitually hunched posture. Perhaps in time he’ll learn to roll his shoulders back instead of closing in on himself physically — and mentally. Hannibal notes the distance in his eyes. 

“You’re staring,” Will says, with an attempt at a laugh. “Did I make a mistake with the assembly? There were a lot of pieces for a three-piece suit. Should’ve come with an instruction manual.” 

Every remark that comes to mind, from _you’re stunning_ to _I should have introduced you to a tailor years ago_ didn’t seem as though they would rest easily on Will’s taut shoulders, so Hannibal contents himself with, “It’s perfect,” and, “Are you ready to go?” 

Will worries the corner of his ticket between his fingers as he nods. When they pass from the warmth of the flat into the chilly night, Will’s gaze drifts to the stars. Hannibal glances between them and cannot decide whether Will or the stars are more remote and unreachable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off to the opera. 
> 
> Before you ask, no, I did not write multiples paragraphs about Will's hands because of staring at too many gifs on Tumblr. Certainly not. Nope. 
> 
> The last two chapters will be posted over the next couple of days! In the meantime...let me know what you think?


	3. Ritornello

_Addio terra_

_Addio cielo_

_E sole, addio…._

Orpheus’ sorrowful aria is ringing in Hannibal’s ears as they slide into the first available taxi.

“Opera?” asks the driver, glancing at their suits. 

“ _Si_ ,” Hannibal answers. “ _Grazie_.” 

Will’s voice startles him when he speaks; he’d been expecting more of his distance. 

“What are we seeing?” he asks in a low voice, always avoiding drawing attention to himself, even if the only audience is a cab driver who may not even speak English.

“Are you familiar with the story of Orpheus?” Hannibal asks. The street lights are glittering through the trees flashing past Will’s furrowed profile. Hannibal hadn’t forgotten the beauty of Florence in the spring, but the color had bled from the memories over time. He wishes they were walking so he might inhale the scent of the tiny flowers nestled in the grass along the sidewalk. He wants to listen to the mix of traffic and nature that distinguishes the soundscape of the city, wants to turn and watch the sky darken and the lights glow on the bridges that cross the Arno, but he can’t seem to stop watching Will.

“The Underworld,” Will says at last. “He descends into the Underworld.” 

“On his wedding day,” Hannibal confirms, pleased that Will knows something of the Greek myth. “To rescue his wife. The story of Orpheus is a tale of tragic weddings and love beyond death.” 

“That sounds depressing,” Will mutters, staring at the trees and the blackening strips of sky between them. 

A smile threatens Hannibal; he gives in to it. “Many archetypal stories are. Human beings are sometimes guilty of defining themselves by tragedy.”

They lapse into a mostly comfortable silence as the taxi lumbers across a stone bridge. The lights on either bank of the Arno paint the waters with glittering gold.

“You’re humming,” Will says without looking at him. 

“Orpheus’ aria,” Hannibal clarifies. “ _Tu se morta._ Which translates to ‘You are dead.’” 

“Subtle.” Will directs his answer to his window as he watches the river pass them by. Hannibal wonders if he’s thinking of the fishing prospects. “He felt compelled to inform his wife that she was dead,” Will continues in a small voice. “I'm sure she already knew that.”

“He isn't singing for anyone but himself. He mourns for the loss of the sun as he pursues a greater light.” 

Will’s eyes move from the water below to the clear, moonlit sky above. Hannibal wonders about the color of Will’s eyes in the moonlight; their current position offers him no view. 

“And what happens?” Will asks the moon. 

“I’m afraid you'll have to wait and find out.” 

The street levels when they reach the opposite shore, and they leave the bridge and the river behind. 

===

The Opera di Firenze is a far more modern building than Will expected. He’d been holding an image in his mind without knowing it, something gilded and grand and Victorian. When they emerge from the taxi and onto the stone-paved sidewalk of the Piazza Vittorio Gui, he finds himself confronted with a distant rectangular structure, sharp-edged and adorned with nothing beside a smattering of asymmetrical strips of window and a collection of carved red horses guarding the doors. The concrete walkway that approaches the entrance is the easily the size of a runway and bathed in the brilliant white glow of steel streetlights. Enormous banners are displayed between the three set of doors, red backdrops with bold gold letters that cast a shadow: 

_Il Capolavoro di Claudio Monterverdi: L’Orfeo_

The banners flanking the center entrance are slightly more elaborate than the others. On the left side, an ashen hand reaches upward; on the right, a golden hand reaches down. Over the doors, a harp lies unreachable between them. There is something ancient in the curved design of the harp and the flat, slightly faded color of the artwork. _Like a Roman fresco_ , is the thought that surfaces in his mind, and Will realizes that he _has_ absorbed some arcane bits of Hannibal’s constant art talk.

The contrast between the softness of the ancient art and the cutting light and angles of the modern building is jarring. He wonders suddenly whether Hannibal prefers ancient art to modern — he certainly goes on about Achilles and Patroclus often enough — but Hannibal seems universally pleased when Will glances at him. 

“Opera was born in Italy,” Hannibal muses, leading the way to the glass doors. “The first opera was written for the court of Florence.” 

“ _L’Orfeo_ was the first opera?” Will asks, trailing behind Hannibal as they step inside.

The interior is every bit as modern as the exterior, all sharp lines and unbroken gray tile and stone. The wealthy opera patrons are easy to distinguish from the clusters of under-dressed students and the wandering tourists. Will realizes with a stab of chagrin that he and Hannibal fall squarely into the wealthy patron bracket, dressed as they are. The impression only intensifies when Hannibal begins to converse with an usher in fluent Italian. He turns back to Will with two programs in hand.

“No,” he answers at last. “There were a few that came before. But Monteverdi was the first to explore the medium’s potential. It is the first _great_ opera.” 

Will considers muttering something about reserving the right to decide just how great or not great it is, but it’s difficult to be acerbic when Hannibal looks happier than he has in days. 

They drift through the crowd, the constant enthusiastic murmur of Italian closing around Will like so many unscalable walls. It’s difficult, having no idea what anyone is saying. He keeps close to Hannibal, who navigates the lobby and stairs with ease, speaking briefly to a bartender for some wine. 

_Vino._ That word Will knows. He wishes he had the vocabulary to ask for some of the harder drinks. Some of the terms might be universal, come to think of it. And he could always resort to pointing. He is on the verge of trying to make himself understood; Hannibal steers him away from the bar before he has the chance. He suspects Hannibal of trying to refine his palette.

He also suspects that Hannibal is enjoying his isolation a little too much. He thrives on being the only one Will can converse with. It’s a victory Will is willing to allow; he doesn’t care to converse with strangers anyway.

Hannibal leads the way into the auditorium. They emerge on the lowest level, a vast sea of half-empty seats rapidly filling. There are nine blocks of seats threaded by walkways of shining hardwood. Will wonders about the acoustics. The continuous clack of heeled shoes is certainly deafening enough. 

Hannibal leads them past countless rows of grey padded seats to a row near the front and adjacent to the aisle of the central block of chairs. They are very close to the stage and Will can just see the milling heads of the musicians in the pit below. He glances at the balcony overhead, a graceful crescent of raised seats above and behind and stretching to either side of them. The lights above them are fluorescent bars of varying lengths and widths arranged in irregular intervals. It is beautiful and disconcerting at once; he looks away, studies his program instead.

Distracted as he is, it takes him a moment to realize the entire thing is in Italian.

===

Will’s despairing look is endearing. Hannibal watches the progression of thoughts flow across his ever-expressive face: disbelief, irritation, despair. Hannibal has always been fascinated by Will’s expressions. He has one of the most communicative faces Hannibal has ever seen. For those who know how to read it, at any rate. Most of Will’s friends and colleagues seemed baffled by his moods and tics in the early days of their acquaintance. But for Hannibal, Will was and is a book in a language known only to the two of them — and he delights in the reading. 

“I don’t guess there’s any hope of English subtitles,” Will says flatly, staring at the Italian text with an expression reminiscent of a man being led to the gallows. There are two columns of text on each page: on the left, the original libretto in its antiquated dialect; on the right, a more modern rendering. It makes no difference to Will, who can’t read either.

“No need to abandon hope just yet,” Hannibal answers, and produces the folded sheets of paper he had stashed in an inner pocket before leaving. Will accepts the pages curiously. It takes him only a moment to understand what he sees.

A complete English translation of the libretto, written in Hannibal’s hand across a stack of unlined pages. Will stares at the first page for a long moment before he speaks.

“You wrote this all out by hand? Why?” He won’t meet Hannibal’s eyes, opting instead to study the velvety folds of the red curtain obscuring the stage. It leaves Hannibal free to indulge the sudden flare of warmth in his chest, the desire to study and memorize Will’s face.

“There were many translations online,” he begins, leaning closer to be heard over the rise in ambient sound as the last of the patrons funnel in from the lobby, “but I found myself disagreeing with some of the finer points. And several made use of antiquated language I did not think you would enjoy. So I prepared my own.”

“You translated the entire thing for me.” The orchestra begins to tune as the auditorium doors swing shut. 

“It didn't require much time. It was the work of a few pleasant hours.” He would gladly have done more. He doesn’t say as much; he doesn’t think Will would like to hear it just now. He waits for the distance between them to expand again, for Will to pull far away and out of reach. 

But Will doesn’t withdraw. Not in his words or his body language or even his eyes. Instead, his shoulders relax and he lets out a long breath.

Will looks at him with something Hannibal is learning to identify as resignation. It’s a look Will has worn from the moment they emerged from the icy grasp of the Chesapeake Bay. Only now there is something else behind it — something warmer, and far more sad. Will looks away before he can identify it. The silence stretches a little thin before Will speaks.

“Thank you.”

The orchestra’s unison fills the air with warmth as the lights fade. 

===

The music is strange, when it begins. Will recognizes the metallic pluck of the harpsichord immediately, having heard Hannibal play the instrument what feels like several lifetimes ago. Surrounding the harpsichord’s steely sound are strumming strings he can’t identify — a lute, maybe? — and a strident chorus of bowed strings, pointed but warm in sound. It’s indefinably different from the other orchestral music Hannibal always has playing. The tone seems stranger, less precise, warm and distant all at once…

Gut strings, he thinks. Violins were once made from gut strings. Images of Tobias Budge flash through his mind; Will forces them back. 

Maybe this is a performance on historically accurate instruments. He glances at his program for the answer and remembers belatedly that he can’t read the answer even if it’s present. Momentarily deprived of distraction, his mind wanders back to Tobias Budge in life…and in death. He remembers the body bag in Hannibal’s office.

He remembers the look on Hannibal’s face when he arrived. 

_I thought you were dead._

Will has thought so, too. Many times. He wonders what constitutes life and death and whether he qualifies for either label.

The curtain rises at last. The red velvet is gilded and shimmering in the stage lights; it gives way to the glimmer of a golden gown and harp when the lone figure on stage is revealed: a woman with dark curls spilling over her shoulders, dressed like a muse of ancient Greece. Will glances down at Hannibal’s precise writing. _La Musica_ , he has written above the opening text. In parentheses, _The Spirit of Music_. 

_I am Music,_ she sings, her voice filling the cavernous expanse of the auditorium, _Who in sweet accents can make peaceful every troubled heart, and so with noble anger, and so with love, can I inflame the coldest minds._

Dead or alive, Will thinks he could use a little peace. He releases a breath and lets the Spirit of Music carry him away. 

===

The pastoral joy of Orpheus and the nymphs and shepherds is poured out in dances and singing, solos and duets that flutter and intertwine like the ribbons trailing from the nymphs’ flowing dresses. The joy over the long-awaited wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice is golden, perfect, ecstatic. 

But it is short-lived. 

Even now, the messenger Sylvia approaches from the wings, a cold spotlight following her path across the stage. Hannibal waits for her news with breathless anticipation. Her face drawn with pain, the mezzo-soprano opens her lips and freezes the warmth of the pastoral scene. 

_Ah bitter fate, ah wicked and cruel destiny, ah hurtful stars, ah avaricious heaven…_

Eurydice is dead, bitten by a poisonous serpent as she gathered flowers for her hair.

Hannibal’s mind is borne up by the lament of the chorus, and his thoughts wander far away. The word _serpent_ has many meanings. It is applied to the Devil as well as to snakes. 

In ancient times, the word was also used for dragons. 

He sees through the singers grappling with the sudden tragedy as if they are an insubstantial pane of glass; beyond that pane he looks back on a dusky clifftop by the Chesapeake Bay. He sees Will there, bloody and gasping, his expression tumbling from joy into resignation before he falls. He hadn’t been able to bear the prospect of what they had done together. Of what they might still do. 

But he’d chosen life with all its consequences and possibilities at the foot of that cliff, baptized into a new life in the waters of the Chesapeake. He remembers Will’s shadowed face, and the smile that he couldn’t quite see in the dark. Joy or despair — which was it? 

He turns to face Will in the dark and finds him studying the translation in his lap. His fingers trace Orpheus’ line as he sings onstage.

_You are dead, my life, and I still breathe?_

His memory of Will’s shadowed face melds with his face now, glowing faintly in the footlights. A sun-bright flash of insight illuminates both in Hannibal’s mind. 

Will had resigned himself to death, had marched himself straight into the Underworld, and believes he will remain. Perhaps he even believes that Hannibal will kill him. Whatever he thinks, it doesn’t involve the future Hannibal imagined through three long years of separation. Will doesn’t think they can remain together. Not as they are now, sans the trappings of their old lives. 

Sans the constant company of death.

Raised above them on the stage, Orpheus’ grief has only intensified. Will is staring at the text, his fingers lingering instead of tracing. _You are gone from me never to return, and I should remain?_

Death has been Hannibal’s constant companion for almost the entire length of his life. He wonders about life, now. About Will’s place in it. 

About whether they can go on as they are now.

The future is a blank to him. But the past, the years without Will, are the blackest night. For once, Hannibal longs for the light. 

Orpheus’ face is stained with tears as he addresses his absent spouse. 

_I will go in safety to the deepest abysses, and having softened the heart of the king of shades, I will bring you back with me to see the stars again. Oh, if wicked destiny refuses me this, I will stay with you, in the company of death._

Hannibal listens with distant delight to the tenor’s exquisite vocal ornamentation, pulsing and gliding in the early Baroque style. His emotion and technique are enough to crack the most hardened heart. Beside him, Will’s eyes, now fastened to Orpheus, are damp.

He finds himself closing his eyes to savor the final moment of Orpheus’ aria. _Farewell earth, farewell heaven. And sun, farewell._

The chorus sighs and sings as Orpheus departs, beginning his descent into the realm of mist and death. _Let no mortal man trust fleeting and frail happiness that soon vanishes, and often after a great ascent a precipice is near!_

_===_

Act Three begins with mist and cold blue light. Orpheus has come to the very gates of the Underworld, guided by Hope itself in the guise of a young woman with a clear voice. The Ferryman of the River Styx appears as she departs, shadowed and concealed behind a gruesome mask as he glides through the mist on the ship that carries the souls of the dead into Hades’ possession. The tenor playing Orpheus projects a chill of terror and helplessness as he bears the unforgiving song of the Ferryman as one might bear the lash of a whip. The Ferryman will not allow Orpheus into the Underworld. 

But the music shifts into something warmer and piercingly sad. Cripplingly tragic, devastatingly human.

Hannibal has loved Orpheus’ grand aria _Possente Spirto_ for as long as he can recall.

He has owned many recordings, but it is never idle background music for him. He can't even bring himself to sketch when it is playing. It isn't music meant to paper the walls during dinner parties or meetings; it is a work of art, preserved across time by fate and chance. There are two voices that speak to him through Orpheus’ words: Monteverdi's voice rings in the expressive sculpting of the melody, fluid and stone like the sculptures so lifelike they baffle the eye; Orpheus’ ancient voice calls to him from longer ago still, emerging from the clouds of myth. Hannibal always sets aside his pencil for _Possente Spirto_ , closes his eyes, _listens_. He has attended several performances of _L’Orfeo_ over the years, and each time the aria is the crowning achievement, and certainly the moment he savors the most. 

The lute releases a cascade of arpeggios, and the tenor opens his mouth to sing.

Hannibal finds himself staring at Will instead of the stage. 

Will seems lost in the rise and fall of the tenor’s voice as he unleashes the full scope of his technical and expressive ability, gliding through Monteverdi’s painstakingly notated vocal ornaments with ease and power. The instruments, pairs of violins and recorders and horns, make their lilting statements and echo each other between Orpheus’ exertion of his musical talent to move the Ferryman to help him reach his beloved. The mist shifts and swirls between the tenor and the bass onstage, reaching cold fingers out to both. 

Will’s jaw slackens a little, and he forgets the translation in his lap as he stares, transfixed. Hannibal wishes desperately to know what he sees in the tableau of death and music before them. He wishes, as he has countless times, to see through Will’s eyes. 

The Ferryman is moved by Orpheus’ plea, but not to pity. The mystical strains of the music send him off to sleep instead. 

Orpheus crosses the river alone. 

_Let valour prevail if my prayers are in vain. A passing flower of time is opportunity that must be plucked at the time. While these eyes pour forth bitter streams of tears, give me back my love, Spirits of Tartarus!_

He disappears into the mists, accompanied by the remote song of many spirits. 

===

The king and queen of hell are singing. 

Pluto and Proserpina — Hades and Persephone as the Greeks would have called them — are at odds over the fate of Eurydice. But the disagreement between the monarchs of the dead is short; Hades bows to Persephone’s wish and agrees to allow Eurydice to return to the world above in the company of her husband. There is a single caveat: he must not look back at her during the climb. 

_Blessed be the day that first I pleased you,_ declares Persephone in rapturous delight, _blessed the seizing of me and the sweet trickery, since, to my good fortune, I won you, losing the sun._

The surrounding spirits sing in joy. _Pity today, and love, both triumph in Hades._

As Orpheus begins the long ascent, singing with equal parts joy and doubt, Will wonders if Persephone’s captivity was truly a good bargain. 

===

Orpheus, overcome by uncertainty, doubts both the voice of Eurydice behind him and the first glimmer of light ahead. 

_What Pluto forbids, Love commands. The more powerful spirit that overcomes men and gods I must obey._

Undone by his love, he looks back. 

Hannibal feels Orpheus’ grief like a blow to the chest. Eurydice, veiled in the drifting gauze of a death shroud, wilts before him, and is drawn back into the fathomless darkness even as Orpheus is compelled, weeping, into the light. 

The chorus of spirits sings for the last time, their tone as grieved and sepulchral as church bells chiming a funeral knell. Beside him, Will reads the translation of the text and presses his lips into a thin, bloodless line. 

_Orpheus conquered Hades and then was conquered by his feelings. Worthy of eternal glory is he that will have victory over himself._

===

Hannibal watches as Will turns to the final page of the translation. Onstage, Orpheus is all but defeated by grief.

_As on the altar of my heart I offered you in sacrifice my ardent spirit…_

He refuses to love anyone again, and collapses to the ground, alone. Will studies the remaining paragraphs of text, a look of confusion passing over his face when he realizes that this moment of despair is not the end. 

He is always so ready to believe in the triumph of tragedy. Hannibal wonders if it is an attitude Will can change. Wonders if he will try. 

A light begins far above, pulling Will’s gaze. A golden chariot is lowered onto the stage, glittering in the center of a cloud bank. A figure backed by the rays of the sun itself, his clothes and hair and skin gleaming gold, has arrived. The god Apollo has descended, singing comfort and offering Orpheus a place in the heavens where he can look on Eurydice’s likeness in the stars. Orpheus trades his grief and solitude for the promise of joy, and ascends with Apollo in his chariot. 

The chorus appears, led by _La Musica_ herself, to hail their departure. 

_So goes one who does not draw back at the call of the eternal spirit. So he obtains grace in heaven who down below made proof of Hades, and he who sows in sorrow reaps the fruit of every grace._

The music ends with gentle joy and _La Musica_ raises her arms toward the audience, an acknowledgement or a benediction or both at once. The lights fade, apart from the single spotlight trained on her. The last light dies with the lingering echo of the strings and the harpsichord. 

Silence and darkness press close against them for a fraction of a moment — and then the thunderous applause begins. The auditorium lights flare to life, and half the audience is already rising to give a standing ovation. Hannibal is quick to join them. Will tucks away his pages before rising as well. 

There are a number of curtain calls, and the applause continues for several minutes before the chorus and conductor begin to position themselves for an encore. Hannibal feels Will’s tension before he sees it. A few people are slipping out to get ahead of the inevitable press of the crowd. Will stares after them.

It’s incredibly rude to leave a musical performance early merely to avoid traffic. Worse, it’s a failure of appreciation for the art. Will looks resigned again, and starts to sink back into his seat. 

Hannibal halts him with a hand on his arm. 

“Let’s go,” he whispers, and relishes Will’s look of surprise. They slip away before the conductor raises his baton.

The lobby is almost empty and their voices echo against the stone surfaces. “How did you enjoy the tale of Orpheus, Will?”

“Hell of a happy ending,” Will mutters. “The first great opera. I think you and I have differing definitions of ‘great.’” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based my descriptions of L’Orfeo largely on [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Ma4OelX45I) recording of the opera. It really is a fantastic opera, and one that I love to listen to. _Tu se morta_ and _Possente spirto_ are heart-stopping arias. The Baroque style of vocal ornamentation is foreign enough to those of us listening four hundred years later that it sounds strange…but still beautiful. I think that’s my favorite thing about _L’Orfeo_ : it’s universal. It still communicates, across divides of time and aesthetics. 
> 
> Anyway. I hope it was Hannigram-tastic enough for everyone. One chapter left! I’ll do my very best to post it tomorrow.


	4. Moresca

The air is damp with the promise of rain as they make their way back to the street to hail a taxi. The trees lining the concrete walkway whisper as they pass.

“He looked back,” Will says, abruptly. “After all that, he looked back. You’d think he could manage a little self-control.”

“The story would not be so satisfying if it ended the way you suggest,” Hannibal counters, pausing a few feet from the street’s edge to admire the flowers growing wild between the sidewalk and the road. It’s difficult to make out their color in the dark. 

“Satisfying?” Will snorts, and buries his hand in his pockets despite the relatively warm night air. His eyes snap back to Hannibal’s. “Would you look back? If I was trapped in the Underworld.”

Hannibal blinks. He can’t quite give the question the consideration it deserves when Will has cast himself in the role of Eurydice and Hannibal in that of Orpheus. Spouses, bound beyond death. 

He wonders if escaping from the sea counts as escaping the grasp of Hades. 

Will shakes his head and smiles mirthlessly. “You’d look back,” he says in a light tone, but Hannibal hears the weight behind it. The sadness. The implication that there will be no joy when they reach their fated end, sundered forever by gods and weakness. 

But Will has overlooked the key facts. He has assumed, correctly, that Hannibal would follow him, even to the mouth of hell. But what he has neglected to consider is that if Hannibal were so foolish as to lose Will, he would not abscond into the heavens alone.

He would break down the gates of Hades a second time. 

But here on the side of a busy street is not the time or the place to discuss something so important. Particularly not when Will is bent on fatalistic imaginings. Their road to joy must be accomplished in steps rather than leaps. Grand gestures and leaps literal and metaphorical have gotten them nowhere.

Hannibal decides to begin by prescribing a lighter mood.

“"Did you die in this suit?” he asks flatly, eyeing the suit in question. Will has settled into the unfamiliar fabric over the course of the evening, and he looks almost comfortable now. He’s certainly drawing a few appreciative looks from passersby.

Will frowns. “What?”

“Are you wearing this suit? In the Underworld, Will.”

“I don't see how that's relevant —“

“It's very relevant. It may determine whether or not I can keep from looking at you.” He steps forward to hail a taxi, feeling rather than seeing Will’s shock. 

“You'd sentence me to an eternity with Hades. For a suit.” It’s the flat monotone that Will retreats into when he isn’t able to process his thoughts and emotions adequately. Sometimes this tone distills into affection; on other occasions, it transforms into anger. 

“It’s an exquisite suit,” Hannibal replies, smiling as Will vacillates rapidly between irritation and a laugh. A taxi finally alights at the curb beside them.

“How do you say ‘I hate you’ in Italian?” Will wonders aloud, but the roots of his bitter tone don’t run deep. 

Hannibal doesn’t think before he replies. “ _O, se ciò negherammi empio destino, rimarrò teco in compagnia di morte.”_

Will freezes with his hand on the handle of the taxi’s door and Hannibal knows he recognizes Orpheus’ promise to remain with Eurydice, anywhere and always. 

_Oh, if wicked destiny refuses me this, I will stay with you in the company of death._

Will takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and climbs into the cab. 

===

Will has spent a good portion of his life contemplating appropriate responses to social stimuli that didn’t seem to stump anyone else. Smiling is good, eye contact advisable, polite manners essential. 

He wonders what the appropriate response might be to a statement of dedication that involves a promise to remain together even in hell. 

Because that worked out so well for Orpheus and Eurydice. 

Will sighs and tugs off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes and wondering why Hannibal hasn’t decided to kill him yet. If his life is going to be one long carnival ride, he’d just as soon get off now. 

But Hannibal isn’t regarding him with irritation or impatience when he shoves his glasses back into place and turns to look at him. His eyes are full of…anticipation.

“I know you’ve been comfortable in Florence,” Hannibal begins, leaning toward Will just slightly. “But I would like to move on to Milan.” 

Will’s equilibrium tilts a little and his world spins. He’d been waiting for Hannibal to break out of their temporary routine. Maybe this was it — the moment he insists on going back to old habits. Back to hunting and eating and everything that Will refuses to stomach ever again. He knows what this is — an effort to involve Will in his lifestyle, to make him a captive and a monarch in a hell of their own making. He remembers Persephone’s smile, her ringing voice, and feels nauseous. 

“Why?” he asks, forcing his voice to remain level. 

Hannibal tilts his head, studying him. “To see the opera, of course. I would like to show you a proper opera house of the Old World.” Before Will can process this extraordinary statement, Hannibal continues, in a quieter tone. “There are many things I would like to show you, Will.” 

Will feels the breathless, stomach-twisting sensation that accompanied their fall from the cliff over the Chesapeake. It was a weightless feeling, a lightheaded rush of adrenaline…

And of hope.

Maybe this bargain isn’t like Persephone’s — love at the cost of the sun. Maybe there _are_ paths out of the Underworld, even if Orpheus and Eurydice stumbled on the way up. 

_Pity today, and love, both triumph in Hades._

He lets himself wonder, just for a moment, if maybe this will work. 

“Alright,” he says, rasping through the sudden tightness in his throat. He can’t identify the emotion constricting him until he feels the involuntary smile tugging at his lips. “Show me.” 

===

Hannibal isn’t sure whether it will rain. The air seems heavy with the possibility, but the only thing drifting in the wind’s grip are leaves and flower petals coaxed from the grass and the trees. Will seems lighter when they step onto the sidewalk in front of their flat, and he even smiles before disappearing through their doorway. The taxi pulls away, leaving Hannibal alone in the semi-dark of the street. The light of their living room flashes on one floor above. 

He lingers in the street, breathing in the scents of flowers and trees and rain along with the less appealing aroma of the engine oil dripping from a nearby car and the decay wafting from the gutter by his feet.

Hannibal wonders whether Will is Apollo, golden and merciful, beckoning him up into the heavens for a lifetime of music and solace and stars, or Eurydice, trailing sorrow and hopeless shadows into the Underworld, never to return. He wonders about the odds of exploring or leaving the Underworld together, wonders whether their journey will be a descent or an ascension. 

He watches Will’s shadow drift by their window and decides that it doesn't matter. He will follow him regardless. Into the heavens or into the depth of Hades itself. In life, in death, across the River Styx...

Or upward, into the land of the living. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote a post-season three fic...
> 
> ...with no sex and copious amounts of Baroque opera. I should probably apologize for that. 
> 
> In my defense, opera!fic is just too much fun to write! It's also really hard. I had to crack open my old music textbooks to remind myself of some of the finer points of Baroque composition circa 1607. Hannibal would have approved, I think. ;)
> 
> Just a couple of quick notes for anyone who's interested: the chapter titles are drawn from the names of instrumental interludes that occurred in many types of compositions from this period, including operas. I specifically went with _sinfonia, ritornello_ , and _moresca_ because each of these appears in _L'Orfeo_. _Prologo_ isn't a strictly musical term, but _La Musica_ 's introduction in _L'Orfeo_ is called _prologo_ , so I decided to incorporate it. Especially since this fic begins with, you know, a prologue. 
> 
> The Opera di Firenze is very real, and I spent a ridiculous amount of time googling pictures and taking Google Earth street tours of the area, trying to get an idea of what Florence and the opera house look like. Hopefully my intensive googling helped set the stage for this fic!
> 
> Lastly, I may have stretched believability a little by having Hannibal decide in the end that he just wants Will, even without murder on the side. He wants the murder husband, with or without the murder. I think a case could be made for Hannibal restraining his urges in order to remain with Will, but the opposite could also be argued. I personally have reservations about a full-on Murder Husbands story in which Will becomes a killer with Hannibal. Going into murder mode changes things about Will that I love, and it's _actual serial killing_ which I kind of take exception to on a moral level (gasp!), so I never fully support it. Although there are some amazing fics that explore that sort of story! I decided to avoid that in my take on the post-WotL timeline. I hope I made a case strong enough to be believable and enjoyable.
> 
> When it comes to my non-murder fic preferences, I'm reminded of Mads Mikkelsen's famous comment about Will and Hannibal living in seclusion with a dog named Encephalitis, and also [his remark](http://www.ew.com/article/2015/12/11/best-of-2015-hannibal-finale-mads-mikkelsen?hootPostID=9794908bcbba252a4826eaecf23fb7b1) about an ideal future looking like Will and Hannibal maintaining their relationship and restraining their more violent urges. First of all, I love you and your headcanons, Mads. Second of all, the idea of Will and Hannibal finding fulfillment in each other is maddeningly amazing. No more murder-y dinner parties with Hannibal getting his kicks from getting one over on the world, no more of Will hiding in a secluded house in Virginia, penning himself behind boundaries designed for his protection and that of others. Will can connect with Hannibal safely because Hannibal understands the darkest parts of Will's mind — and he thinks they're beautiful. Hannibal can fully engage with Will because Will understands him, even the terrifying parts that no one else can identify as human. 
> 
> Peace and self-actualization through mutual understanding and fulfillment — that's probably an example of fairytale logic and storytelling, but this is the world of _Hannibal_. And by the time we get to season three it's definitely a fairytale, even if it's soaked in blood. 
> 
> What do you think? I hope everyone didn't fall asleep reading a fic with Baroque opera and no sex... Feel free to yell at me in the comments! In all seriousness, though, I hope you enjoyed. A great big shout out to everyone who read, left kudos, or commented. Thank you all. <3

**Author's Note:**

> ...and that's my version of a quasi-healthy post-fall scene: Hannibal recognizing Will's right to decide his own fate. I guess that's about as healthy as it gets when it comes to tag-teaming a murder and then murder/suiciding right over a literal cliff. 
> 
> But that's Hannigram for you. Sigh.


End file.
